


In nomine Patris

by silvercobwebs



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Jossed, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvercobwebs/pseuds/silvercobwebs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post <i>Children of Earth</i>, Gwen struggles with names.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In nomine Patris

**Author's Note:**

> Written long before 'Miracle Day' aired, so Jossed to hell, but damnit I still like it.

Gwen thinks a lot about names nowadays. Nothing else to do really. Except knitting. She hates knitting, but it's the only thing that keeps her hands busy. Probably the only pointy objects Rhys'll let her near either. She's on maternity leave (from where? Torchwood? She _is_ Torchwood now. Torchwood is on maternity leave. How about that then?), and Rhys fusses and asks her every hour if she's proper comfy like, and she tells him it's fine, it's fine, his voice grating like sandpaper over raw flesh. She's not bloody comfy, hasn't been for a long bloody time, and she doesn't expect it to get easier as the due date looms like some kind of... some kind of...stupid great big chocolate-guzzling pterodactyl that's probably nothing but charred bone and ash by now. 

It's going to be a boy, she feels it. A little man curled up in her belly, just weeks from emerging into the world. They decided not to learn the sex, wanted some kind of surprise, although she still has that tiny nagging voice at the back of her skull – but it is human, isn't it? Course it is, she knows it – he – is. It feels right this time, all going to plan, hospitals, appointments, breathing exercises, all reassuringly safe and dull. Doesn't stop her worrying, mind you. 

She simply cannot call it Jack. Won't. Jack Harkness is the only real Jack, stupid as that sounds after all she's learned about him, and of course you don't name your son after your, well, after whatever it is that Jack still is to her. It would be inappropriate. Same goes for Owen, much as she misses him. Ianto. A name won't bring him back, now will it? Part of Gwen longs to do that, to have a son – she knew that's what Rhys is really wanting after all – a son who would arrive small and pink and crying, and she would coo over him, fresh and vulnerable in her arms. She would hold him and look at Rhys, who wouldn't be able to stop smiling like an idiot, and they would exchange a Look. Some kind of bittersweet shared moment of Fate and she'd say 'Ianto', and Rhys would duck his head just a little, and although they both know it wouldn't make a difference, wouldn't bring him back, it would still be right and honourable and good, and might just make the ache lessen a bit.   
But she can't do that either. She doesn't want to look at her son and think about cold rooms and body bags and that sickly sweet aftertaste in the air. The smell of corpses and toxic gas, and Jack lost forever, clutching a body, bereft.  
She can't give her son a dead man's name. Silly, really, that's what names are after all, isn't it? Relics, hand-me-downs from the dead, words that belonged in other people's hearts long ago.  
There is another reason. A dark and petty one she doesn't want to think about, but nevertheless there it is: jealousy. If she gave birth to a boy of _that_ name, would he still belong to her? It's a ridiculous notion, she knows, but what if? What if he grew up and was strong and handsome and kind and then Jack came back? Swept into the room and was just the same. He's immortal after all, and if he came back, and she was an old lady, still waiting, and he gave her that look he reserves for people like Estelle, like she was already gone, a black and white photo on the mantelpiece. And there would be her boy, her Ianto, and Jack would smile that smile and whisk him away. Who would she be more jealous of? Oh God, that was a terrible thing to think. Stupid and irrational and wrong, but it still jabs at her like a loose brooch pin. Just when she thinks she has it neatly tucked away it loosens and stabs without a hint of forethought. The human mind really is the cruellest force in nature, isn't it? 

She needs to work, but they won't let her. The doctors don't understand: working is what makes things easier, keeps her focused, keeps her from thinking like this. Rhys knows, but his gaze softens every time he looks at her bump, his eyes like the ones you see in those old films, blurry and so impossibly wide. He won't even have a proper argument with her, doesn't want to upset the baby. So they curl up together on the sofa, watch the news at six and Gwen pretends. In her head she's linking dreary stories to alien activity or Rift troubles: anything that would get her out of the flat.  
She thinks about slapping Rhys sometimes, wonders if that would make him yell, watch his face redden and see if he was tempted to hit her right back. More stupid, sick thoughts, Gwen Cooper. Even if she did do that, she'd apologise immediately and he'd shake his head and mutter something about hormones, and it would be awkward for a few minutes, and then the television would shuffle its way back into hearing range and he'd make her a cuppa. Decaff, mind, don't want to make the kid a caffeine addict now do we? he'd joke weakly, and she'd smile, and the incessant TV drone would pacify all. 

So she sits, and she flicks through magazines, watches daytime telly, thinks about not thinking, fingers resting over her swollen belly. She makes endless trips to the ladies for a piss, and lies to her husband about hormones making her feel crazy. Just natural, she assures him, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. Just another crazy pregnant lady. But you wait 'til it's born, and things'll be better then sweetheart, hmm?  
She dreads that moment now, because she knows it won't really change things, unless. Unless perhaps Jack comes back? Maybe in a fit of sentimentality (or maybe just drunk, she'll settle for drunk. Pity he doesn't drink.) he'll come to her bedside when she's sweating and swearing the arse off a drunk sailor, will saunter in and smile and take her hand and make a lewd comment about seeing her with her legs splayed, making sure to observe the clench of Rhys's jaw. If he ever does come back. 

In the meantime she'll keep trying to knit, keep pretending and wait. One day it has to get better. One day the fog will have to lift. It's a curse being an optimist, it really fucking is. Maybe tomorrow she'll think of the right name. 

 

\- End


End file.
